


the world was in my hands

by lovelycherryblondelocks



Series: Love, Kei [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pining, ex-lovers, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29066487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelycherryblondelocks/pseuds/lovelycherryblondelocks
Summary: "Keiji imagines a world where he was first. And he wonders distantly if Kei would have hummed him in vivid hues and radiant poems - if Kei would have chattered relentlessly, elated by the thoughts of them.Keiji imagines a world where he was first - and wonders hopefully, if Kei would have loved him as he loved Ushijima."- snippets of the past, the present and the promise of a future
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Tsukishima Kei, Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, Miya Osamu/Tsukishima Kei, Tsukishima Kei/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: Love, Kei [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015272
Comments: 18
Kudos: 36





	the world was in my hands

**Author's Note:**

> I strongly suggest for those who are new to this series to check out the first two parts before reading this. it retells the stories and moments of akatsukki and holds a vague timeline that's directly affected by the prequel and sequel of this series. 
> 
> As always, forgive me for any overlooked errors and please have a good read :>>

He takes delight in the warmth of a palm beneath his cheek and memorises each of its indentions. There's a laugh as he leans further into the coarse outlines of frail fingertips - greedily, hungrily and desperately - and it sounds a bit like the end of heaven's downpour and the rising peak of summer. 

_"What are you thinking about?"_

Keiji stares at him, half-lidded and enamoured. He is conscious of the dream-like state he has imprisoned himself in- but he takes everything as truth regardless. 

"Nothing." He returns the smile, volume a flutter of wispy feathers. It drips in subtle streaks of gold and rusting orange. _You're beautiful_ , he wants to say.

Kei giggles at him and dabs a finger on his lips, painting him in blooming roses. _"You're a weirdo."_

"Not as bad as you." Keiji teases back. The rest of his sentence drawls, smothered by the blur of sun rays wrapped around their skins. He inches closer. Fingers twined. Knees to knees. Gazes aligned. And lips a breath away from spilling secrets. 

Kei and Keiji. Keiji and Kei. It's all Keiji ever wants for the rest of his life.

Kei stares at him, knowing. The lift of his coy grin is washed with hollow certainty.

_"It's not forever Keiji."_

-

Keiji wakes up from a dream he's long forgotten.

He glimpses at the clock, the blearing numbers years away from the present.

In this timeline - Kei too, is years away from death.

-

"I've always wanted to do ballet." He tells him a little secret one twilight in the high windows of bustling Tokyo. Cold dampens the silk of his clothing, tucked tight and covered well in the clench of his fists. He's hidden something deep in the crevices of his pensive reveries. 

Keiji parries off the concern for the sake of a good night's gaze at the skies. His arms lean on the biting chill of pristine railings. Beneath the shade of black horizon, his shadows mingle with the sparkling lumination of sleepless skyscrapers.

"You would look nice in a tutu." He tells him, feigning detachment. Composed. Collected. No slip of endearment beyond the familiarity required. A melody of care and devotion looms above their bodies, brazen in the way it sits between the unclosed spaces and unlinked arms. 

Kei is ignorant of the unflagging nags and unspoken admiration. He is neither wary nor informed. Keiji considers him blase - perhaps used to the long gazes sent his way and the pining pleas for his attention. And when he huffs, adorably petulant for a young man his age, Keiji thinks him unfairly oblivious. 

"Not funny." He says. A trembling sneeze escapes his frown. Keiji dares his luck and hangs a jacket on his lethargic shoulders. 

"I'm serious." Keiji snickers heartily, casual as he brushes an elbow against the other. _You'd be prettier than them._

There's not a day Keiji does not think that. There's not a day Keiji finds his beauty lacking, marred or misshapen in any sides or angles. He has spent many years inscribing sugary lyrics out of his eyes - has curated paintings of his being and engraved them in his mind. So many years, Keiji has gawked at him in that same dumbstruck way artists worshipped their muses. So many years, Kei has yearned even just a touch of the slope of his nose, the pink of his cheeks and the smooth red of his lips.

"You would be prettier than all of Tokyo." And so he whispers without restraint. And so he allows himself a smidgen of freedom.

Kei bashfully swings to the rhythmic lull of his honesty. His lashes flutter, silver - _moonlit_. Keiji notices the insecure hunch of his back as he beams. Kei appears to not believe him. Not in the slightest. Keiji decides his perceived reflection is too disjointed from the truth of his beauty. 

"That's an overstatement." Kei corrects him. The protest is unneeded, however.

"You don't believe me?" Keiji arches a brow. He is just as fazed as the other is. 

The hem of his jacket slips on Kei's shoulder. Kei, always fast with his reflexes, pulls them tighter to himself. The sheen of his collarbone hides. Whatever pale skin had been revealed to the world now glistens beneath rough denim.

Giggles invade the breeze. A dash of notes dangle about, pigments of canary and honey meandering after. Kei flicks his forehead in a fascinating manner of avoidance.

"What are you sounding all serious for?" 

"Because you're an idiot." Keiji admits, frank and earnest. No reluctance to hinder the warmth or the sincerity of his yet-to-be-said sentiments. 

Kei does not take offence. He pouts though, ever the childish sulker. If there even was such a word, Keiji believes the description suits the younger regardless. 

"There are a lot of attractive people in Tokyo. You should know better than to exclude them." 

Keiji grins, confident of his answer. "There's not a lot of Kei in Tokyo too you know."

For once, Kei does not object. His fingers unfurl from their vulnerable constriction. The edge of his tone is dipped in lustrous velvet. 

He tips his head and faces Keiji, long locks of golden drifting freely. The pull of his lips is sketched in a fine line. Nothing - not even the cacophony of teeming wanderers - could smother the wisps of the coquettish tune that whistles in the air. 

"There's not a lot of Keiji either."

And like that, Keiji falls deeper in love. The birds twitter above. Heavens chorus in pitiful sighs.

_-_

"He listens to Of Monsters and Men." 

Keiji flips a page, volume even and impassive. "Uh-huh."

"His favourite food is Hayashi rice."

"Good taste," Keiji comments absently to not deter the other.

"He's the captain of his team and a well-known volleyball player."

There's a rustle in the sheets as Kei hovers over him, cheeks the perfect copy of anemone pink. Glee seeps through his barely-concealed fawning. Keiji regards the image he presents as near-identical to the ones poems ramble about in romances.

"Sometimes his friends call him Ushiwaka."

Keiji stirs, mildly amused. Silence falls before he craftily offers a brief quip. "Creative." 

The bed they lounge on creaks in displeasure. Kei retreats back to his position against the headboard. "You're not really that interested, are you?"

The younger's arms are rested by his sides, sluggish as the winds of mundane Sunday. He leans his legs atop Keiji's. There is a bare strip of azure that flitters over the thin veil of their open panes. It sways in wavy streams, intruding the humble recesses of their newly-furnished apartment and varnished thresholds. Summer is afoot, it seems.

Afternoon rays are sharpened, thrilled to spread lazy fun and frivolous pleasures. Perhaps the weather is in its perfect ripe for Keiji to finally confess that, "No. I don't particularly care about this budding romance of yours."

Kei fixates his stare on him. Keiji shifts under the fever of his gaze, back against the window sill and feet dangerously close to a fall. Any moment and Keiji may very well turn himself into a prisoner of his urges.

"You don't understand, Keiji." The younger sighs, heavy with infatuation. "He gave me his strawberry chip." 

Keiji casts a keen glance at him and sees the twinkle of hearts brighten in his eyes. No one has ever seen Kei this candid. No one has ever heard of his loving fantasies and honeyed thoughts, all kindling with ardent faith for romance and trust in chances. Kei is not recognized as the sort of man to swoon and daydream. He is not thought of as tenderhearted, free-spoken or doting. Even in his limp and listless days.

Kei is only ever thought of as a prickly, no-nonsense, cynical man. And no one but Keiji knows him truly. 

"Do you like him?" Keiji pries. He sets down the book in his palm and threads through raven locks. He exposes his ears to the hot, arid zephyrs and cajoles himself to listen.

He's sharply attentive. In fixed days, he is disinterested. In the odd, uncommon ones, he heeds to every little pitter-patters of passersby 15 floors down -drowned underneath flat covers and frayed archways. It holds a kind of pattern Kei's bare feet would reverberate as he treads on the carpet during unsleeping nights. Cautious and unhurried. Always mindful not to disturb Keiji's sleep.

The stress of the harmonies carries a promise of comfort. It's diligent in its insistence to placate the acrid ache pressing on Keiji's lungs. Or what he ofttimes calls " _an essential medication to soothe the angst"._

When Kei stretches, soles nudging the curl of tan knees, his voice softens. No struggle to it or disinclination. No fickleness or indecision. Just pure and utter trust in the feelings he holds. 

"Yeah," Kei props an elbow and slumps a cheek on the clutch of his palm. The sounds of everything are muted. Only the resonant bliss of first love weaves through the open air. "I do. I like him a lot."

"Then that's good." Keiji smiles, devoid of the same untroubled bliss. "I'm happy for you."

\- 

Keiji imagines a world where he was first. And he wonders distantly if Kei would have hummed him in vivid hues and radiant poems - if Kei would have chattered relentlessly, elated by the thoughts of _them_. 

Keiji imagines a world where he was first - and wonders hopefully, if Kei would have loved him as he loved Ushijima. 

_-_

"What do you think of letters?"

Keiji perks up, curious. "Is this another one of your antics to surprise Osamu-san?"

Kei rolls his eyes, jokingly affronted. "They're not antics. More of a gesture of love - yours truly."

"Well, I can tell you one thing." Keiji starts. A new book sits in his lap, untouched. "I've never been good at writing one."

"Figures."

Keiji scowls. "What brought this up? Are you really going to write him a love letter?"

"It's not for him," Kei explains. "It's...for someone special."

"Careful." The older warns. "You don't want to deal with a jealous boyfriend."

The younger scoffs at him with no real malice. He rolls in the confines of his duvet, a crinkled paper in hand and a nibbled pen on the other. "Osamu's not the jealous type. Besides, he's the one who suggested I write the letter."

"And what's it about?" 

Kei shifts. He perches on a pile of snug blankets and fumbles with the sleeves of Keiji's oversized sweater. "Feelings and stuff. I want to thank them for a lot of things."

"Shouldn't I get one of those?" Keiji teases. He tests his fortune, just to check the impervious limit that waits around Kei's meticulously-built boundaries. "I've put up with your troubles too. I deserve a thank you letter of my own."

Kei only huffs at him, ruminative. The pen twirls around his fingers to show no walls have been obstructed.

"You'll get yours soon." He whispers. Like a vow. Like an assertion.

Keiji opens the book and eyes its first three words. "I'll be waiting." 

_-_

"This is the ugly duckling." 

Specks of lumination travel through the boundless expanse of the sky. Kei points at a dot of glossy white and drags his fingers up to the spiked ones -then to the clusters back below. His drawing forms an enclosure, much like a clumsy drawing of a child. 

Keiji squints to see past the staggering lines and finds a silly imitation of a duck's head, cartoonish in its glorious actuality. "Could use a bit more work."

Sand slithers in between their feet. Waves crash into boulders, corroded in its appeal and littered with moss. There is not a single din to be displeased about as the evenfall resonates in muted mumbles. Ripples of water reach up to their toes, translucent and faint as Keiji collides against its splashes. 

The breeze is calm tonight. The currents stray about leisurely, extending into tranquil strokes then flattening to the drier shores. Keiji glimpses at the effulgence of cobalt and arctic. Ghostly veil tints the divide. From above the horizon gleams in washed silver - and below a tease of all the shades of a blue evening.

"That's the ballerina," Kei speaks to him in the same array of tinges. Only the flush of coral and a tincture of salmon paint him differently from the mist of the scenery. 

Keiji tracks the flex of his elbows - how they stretch and flinch, pining after the giant heavens that loom over their minute existence. Kei threads the dots with unchallenged ease. He follows the curves right and crafts an art out of the scattered incandescent bodies. He unravels the magnificence of the sky like no human could. Just a flick of the wrist and he would have the moon in the palm of his hands. 

If it weren't such a normal world, Keiji would have proclaimed right then and there that Kei has conquered the illimitable space.

"She's beautiful." Keiji takes a breath and feels the constriction of his lungs abrade. He is helpless before the other. Devotedly, stupidly and entirely helpless. 

A hand holds his and Keiji fails to remember who craved first. They are deep into seclusion that no reality can ever distort. Nothing but unspoken throb sits still in the spaces left for them to venture. There is only serene silence.

"Tetsu proposed to me." Kei murmurs to him, bashful but full of felicity. He pins a strand, longer now as the days go by and the lovers change. Often replaced. Rarely the same. For Kei, he finds hope in the latter.

Like a casted spell in the near seconds of its expiration, the delusion breaks. Keiji lingers on a finger that glints in diamond and the absence of warmth. Cold as the disillusioned breeze. 

"I know," Keiji says. "He asked for my help."

Kei blinks at him. Three seconds he pauses before a string of giggles travel past his quivering lips. Free and blithe. Heedless to the aches he causes. "So the ballet show was your idea?"

Keiji caresses a knuckle before he detaches from the comfort. It leaves his skin burning in regret. "Yours truly."

And like that, Keiji is back to reality.

_-_

For a brief, unabashed moment of indulgence, he fantasises of what could have been. 

He weeps at the allure of hearing _Akaashi Kei_ as a name he could have had as his. To wear as his, to call as his - in all the mornings to come after the glare of moonlight dies. 

_Kei of Akaashi. Keiji for Tsukishima._ Any of the two could have had a future of its own.

_-_

"When you said I would have loved him better..." Keiji stifles the wobble of his voice. Nicotine sinks in his bones, throat scratched and fingers numbed. His lungs are stunned to their core. The sides of his eyes are clouded, poisoned with opaque. "I don't think that's true anymore." 

Kuroo sits drowsily by the far end of the bench with one lax elbow glued atop the headrest. Three sticks of cigar fizzle and hiss at the dull of Monday's greetings. As smoke dwindles, he casts a look at Keiji. Something akin to resigned understanding bleeds through his teeth.

"Who knows," He says, blank and dry as the day Keiji has last seen him. "Kei's never made it easy to love him. Maybe no one's really better than the other."

Quiet tarries and then teeters. They gobble smoke and corrupt the freshness of air and hush - reckless with their pensive exhales. Keiji is on to his third when the neat blue slackens and morphs into a drab overcast. Lighters are passed, sharing a vice that only Kei has thought of ever admonishing them for.

"If...he asked you again," Keiji clears the croak of his inflection. He proceeds seconds later, less in doubt. "Would you have followed?"

Kuroo humours his query with an empty snicker. "A bit too late to think about regrets now, don't you think?" 

Keiji kicks a pebble off the uneven inclination. The tension of his knuckles loosens deep in the constraints of his pockets. "No use running away from it, Kuroo-san."

Another drag of breath - and Kuroo smothers his cigarette. It's the last of his pack. A noiseless whir ambles through the yawning morning.

"It was either you and me, you knew that right?" Kuroo's words are unprompted. He lets loose of all the musings he's never divulged. "All he had to do was choose. I wanted him to pick me over you. Took me a while to admit I shoulda fought harder." 

The older carves a line on the soil below. He inscribes smudged shapes around the track of patterned curves, repeating the action several times in deep reflection. Keiji peers at the glaze of his soles. It's stained brown by the dry murk of the ground, scrubbed and scruffy. 

"You ask me if I would have followed him...I'm not so sure myself." One last exhale, and the last of strain eases. "All I'm sure about is that I love him."

Keiji blinks languidly. He latches on to the delays of Kuroo's breath to make sense of his own contemplations.

"Sometimes I wonder if Julien hates us for it. If... there's a blame to be put." Sometimes he wonders if there had been another way. If Keiji could have done something better to right the wrongs of their eventuality. 

"He's a smart kid," Kuroo answers quick - as though there's never been a doubt to it. "He knows more than people give him credit for. Even Kei. I'm sure if he hated us so much he wouldn't have cared to know about what we meant to his father." 

Crisp leaves tumble down, coating the walkway in orange autumn. Alas, the fiddly motions quell altogether. 

"Funny," Kuroo laughs again. This time it is wistful. It carries a tremble the weight of a tragic promise. "I can't help but think he could have been my kid too."

And though Keiji leaves it unsaid, he thinks the same.

_-_

The Ballerina is sculpted well from her glossy head to pointed toes. The dress that donned her is alight in silk, crystalline in its grandeur and elusive in its elegance. Her spine is arched well. Chin upright, waist pinched and tight. The form of her arms is long and wide, far-reaching. It's as if she's longing for a desire unknown to the peering eyes. 

"You like it?" The man leans to survey the music box, casting a shadow with his slender height and broadened frame. The moulded figure is markedly smaller than his growing build. But notices it is still demanding of attention. There is something about her profound perfection that easily entrances even the most incurious minds. 

Julien, one of the many victims of its lure, squishes his palm against the hazy wall of glass that protects it from the swindlers. His cheeks are red and mush atop the division. It's clear the boy offers much of his ardour investment in the twirling doll alone.

"She looks like Daddy, Papa." His words are sluggish, slurred from the cold.

Keiji tightens the scarf around his nape and leans down to examine the figure once again. Blonde, proud and unafraid - a goddess of winter magic. The ballerina is as every bit a detailed imitation of his husband. 

So he laughs, light as the pinch of the snow, "He does, doesn't he?"

Julien nods his head, ecstatic of the appraisal. "But Papa is prettier!"

"Of course," Keiji agrees in a heartbeat. He holds the boy's hand. The fingers are frail and the grip is flimsy. But Keiji has it secured under the curve of his palm. "Kei is prettier than all those dolls combined."

A resounding scoff protests against his words. Keiji shifts, chin tucked in a red scarf that his husband regards with secret admiration.

"Stop telling our kid ridiculous things." Kei approaches them in wary strides. The pavement is covered with pale snow, slippery when walked on in the wrong shoes. After a second of aversive manoeuvers, Kei closes the bitter distance of their unprompted separation. Keiji revels in the contentment he feels when he returns - sure that the world is whole and well anew.

"He might grow to dislike you and your deceptive lies, Keiji." The reminder is light, not meaning anything ill by it.

"Daddy!" Julien elatedly runs by his father's side and requests for a hug. Kei instantly caves. There is not a pause as he ruffles his son's hair and takes his free arm to link their fingers together. 

Keiji stills to bask in the tenderness his family flaunts. 

"I have nothing to fear." He begins, husk in his voice and love in his gaze. "It's the truth. You're more beautiful than you think, Kei."

His husband pokes his cheek, chiding. Keiji glimpses at his expression to note the lines of unworried humour. He stares longer and sees more. The gratitude. The care. The reserved adoration. The spirit of freedom that graces his face. The intimacy that sings of serenity - and the love than only Keiji has a hold of.

"Come on," Kei fiddles with a stray strand of raven and wintry lustre. He brushes an ear, fingers pink from the frost. _Frigid but alive._ "Let's get home early so I can make dinner."

-

"That's the ballerina," He points at a crowd of flaring stars, drawing on the horizons like he's not a million miles smaller than its vastness. Julien is keen to the world before him and he never makes it so that he is afraid of it. 

Keiji holds him safe in the promise of his arms. They brace against the breeze, blankets draped around their crouched bodies. The older tilts his chin up and hums as he ganders at heaven's constellations. They're all aligned, it seems. _An intricate design of fate._

"Ballerina," Keiji repeats. He rests his chin atop feather locks, Julien pressed against his chest. He chances a peek of gold and ballerina shadows in the boy's palms. "She's beautiful."

"Very." Julien hums, agreeing. The music box plays quietly - privy to the secrets of the moon.

-

_Dear Kei,_

_It's okay. We'll be fine._

_Love, Keiji_

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you all a good and lovely day <3, i wish to hear about your feedback soon （´・｀ ）♡


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